


But you may fade, my dog will always come through

by Splat_Dragon



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Fix-It, Hybrids, No Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Rearranged some things in the pre-canon timeline for this, Suicidal Ideation, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, Timey-Wimey, dog hybrid, wibbly-wobbly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21764497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: "Dog is man's best friend."Arthur's been a mess ever since Eliza and Isaac had died. No matter what they do, they can't bring him out of his depression. They've only ever seen him act like this when Copper died, and he hadn't been half so morose.Well, they're willing to try anything. So when Hosea finds a hybrid pup, well, he's desperate enough to try it.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. Staring out at the gloom ; That's the rain in the same old blues

Arthur was in a _terrible_ mood.

Had been in a terrible mood for a while. Anyone who tried to approach him was sent away with snarled words that reeked of alcohol, and on more than one occasion bloodied fists. No one knew why—well, that was a lie, Dutch and Hosea knew why, but they could be just as biting as Arthur when it came to hiding information. So after Javier had been sent away, tail between his legs, everyone took to avoiding him, no one else daring to ask their leaders if they knew what had gotten into him.

Even _John_ , though, didn’t know what was wrong, and that was strange. He and Arthur didn’t always get along, but what brothers did? But Arthur had sent him away with cruel worlds, crueler words than he’d ever turned his way before, and a threat of a fight, so he was left as lost as the rest of the gang, if a bit more concerned.

  
  


It was when he began to turn to drink, though, that Hosea and Dutch stepped up their efforts to help him. Nothing good came of drowning your sorrows in alcohol, they knew, Hosea had tried it after Bessie’s death and it had nearly killed him, had nearly gotten all of them killed.

But nothing they did worked. Any attempts at talks had them walking away to keep from rising to his bait, he was seeking a fight, and they were too worried about him to send him out on jobs for fear that he’d get himself hurt-or worse.

  
  


The whole gang was feeling the effects of it. They hadn’t taken to using Arthur as a workhorse yet, that wouldn’t be for a couple more years, but he still did a great deal of work, and without him everyone was having to knuckle down, work harder, do more. His dark mood was pulling the whole gang down, even Karen’s loud nattering becoming quiet mutterings with the few other girls. Everyone tip-toed around where he sat next to the campfire, nursing his who-knew-how-many’th whiskey of the day.

So they were desperate to help Arthur. To help him and fix the gang. But no matter how hard they tried, how hard they looked, nothing worked.

Until Hosea (and of course it was Hosea, it was always Hosea who fixed things) quite literally stumbled upon the solution.


	2. All she asks from me is the food to give her strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the hybrids in this are fairly basic. They have the ears and tail of their animal-so a bunny would have just a tiny little tail and their big ears, either perky or lop, while a raccoon (which are extremely rare because they've been more or less hunted to extinction: who wants a raccoon hybrid after all? (I do but that's neither here nor there) will have the long tail and little ears, and might have pretty permanent and noticeable dark bags under their eyes. However, hybrids don't have breasts, and only 'grow' them when pregnant and nursing. Their eyes are like an animal's more than a humans, mostly iris, with only a thin ring of white.

Hosea was always the one to fix problems, but Dutch had always been the one to bring people home. He’d been the one to discover Arthur, and Javier, and had been the first one to see John.

They’d all agree, though, that his find was one of the best.

  
  


Dutch had found Arthur when the young man had tried to rob him, pulling a gun on Dutch when he walked down an alleyway, and Dutch had been so amused by the sheer gall of him that he’d brought him home, and the rest was history. Javier had been _in camp_ , even, Dutch had just been the one to spot him trying to steal one of their laying hens, and as he always seemed to he’d seen something in the man-then-boy, offering him a place in their growing family. And he’d been the one to see the crowd that had been working to string John up after the boy had tried to steal a hen (what was with their family and hens?), and the one to offer the boy a home after Arthur had shot the rope.

  
  


So, naturally, Hosea found his find in an alleyway, digging through the trash.

His pockets were heavy with his spoils, his steps un-hurried as he tried to get away from the scene of the crime before anyone realized their pockets were lighter than they should have been. The alleyway had looked decently traveled, so he’d ducked down it—people used it enough that he wouldn’t look suspicious, but not often enough that he’d have to push through a crowd—only to drop his hand to his holster at a loud clatter.

The sight of a pair of legs sticking horizontally out of the dumpster, flailing, was almost funny. It was definitely less alarming than a _limp_ pair of legs sticking horizontally out of a dumpster. He snorted, and shook his head, keeping his hand on the handle of his gun as he observed the feet, beginning to move around them.

The legs stilled suddenly, and a girl popped out of the dumpster. The awkward dumpster-diving made sudden sense as wide brown eyes with too little white stared at him in alarm, coarse grey ears perking up to focus on him. Hosea sighed, looking longingly at the light that shone from the end of the alleyway, before turning back to the young hybrid. She couldn’t have been any older than John was when they took him in (at least, the hybrid equivalent), and he’d seen what happened to stray hybrids. How they were shot down like nothing more than annoying flies, left to rot on the streets. Had seen what happened to young bitch hybrids, and he wasn’t a good man, wasn’t a moral man, but he couldn’t leave a child on the streets knowing what might happen to her.

...and, of course, she had a chicken carcass in her mouth.

  
  


Hosea reached into his satchel, seeing the way she stiffened, and felt around, finally pulling out the jerky he’d put away as a snack. He squatted down, groaning as his joints complained, and held it out in front of him, looking away but watching her from the corner of his eye. “Easy girl, I’m not gonna hurt you. It’s good, see?” Hosea broke off one of the sticks of jerky and made a show of eating it.

Bare feet thudded against the ground, and he took her in. She was naked as a jaybird, not even a flour-sack dress to give her some semblance of dignity, although considering she was a stray _and_ a hybrid dignity was a pretty human thing. He wasn’t surprised that she wasn’t wearing pants—most owned hybrids tended to wear either nightshirts or little gowns, only those who were absolutely meticulously trained wearing any sort of pants; hybrids’ hands weren’t dexterous enough to undo buttons or clasps, so their owners had to undo their pants for them when they used the bathroom. So they had to be ‘pants’ trained, and taught to go at certain times.

  
  


She paused, still holding the rotten-looking chicken carcass in her mouth, and he stretched his arm out as far as he could, “Easy, girl, see? It’s good, it’s just food.” The hybrid made a funny grunting sound in the back of her throat, tilting her head, and finally the carcass splatted to the ground, stubby fingers yanking the jerky from his hand. She nibbled on it tentatively, and he couldn’t help but to grin as her eyes widened, before wolfing down the rest messily, crumbs tumbling to the ground. “See? It’s good, isn’t it?”

He turned to look at her, grinning when he saw her dark grey tail beginning to wag. “Here, I’ve got more,” Hosea reached slowly into his satchel, pulling out another handful of jerky. She was quick to yank them out of his hand, wolfing them down without abandon, licking her lips and looking at him hopefully. He smiled, shaking his head and holding out his hands to show that they were empty, “That’s all I have, darlin’, I got more food at home though if you want to come with me.”

Hosea didn’t know how much she understood—a hybrids’ vocabulary varied widely between individuals. Some didn’t understand a word of English or any other language, while others were known to be almost fluent. So he stood, walking towards the end of the alleyway and patting his thigh in a ‘follow me’ motion, grinning when he heard feet padding after him and fighting the urge to look back.

  
  


She followed him all the way to his horse, the gelding flicking his ear in disinterest. The little hybrid twitched her ears back, stepping away from him warily as he shucked his coat, staring at him in wide-eyed confusion when he offered it to her. Riding a horse naked, after all, would be incredibly uncomfortable. She flinched and twitched, but allowed him to wrap it around her, and trailed him as he mounted up on the Turkoman, getting close enough that he easily grabbed her and hauled her onto the saddle behind him. The hybrid yelped, but grabbed onto him, tensing when he kicked Silver Dollar into motion, heading towards camp.

  
  


If Dutch got mad, let him get mad. He’d brought in enough strays that he had no right to deny Hosea this one.


End file.
